


A Red Rose Blooms For You

by Sootgremlins



Series: Red Rose [1]
Category: Guns N' Roses, Hard Rock RPF, Music RPF
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sootgremlins/pseuds/Sootgremlins
Summary: A single red rose petal lands in his glass of whiskey. He wants to laugh, because, of fucking course, it would be a rose. Then he wants to cry, because, of fucking course, it would be a rose.





	1. The First Petal Falls

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read, if you haven't read a fic with Hanahaki disease in it, here's a quick definition, "Hanahaki Disease is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear."

A single red rose petal lands in his glass of whiskey. He wants to laugh, because, of fucking course, it would be a rose. Then he wants to cry, because, of fucking course, it would be a rose. 

He glances up, praying no one saw the petal flutter from his mouth. He’s in luck, the only other person in the room is Steven, passed out on the armchair. He plucks the petal out, assured that Steven won’t be waking up anytime soon. Shaking off the droplets of liquid he looks at it. It’s pretty, a deep red, almost like blood. It’s so thin, it seems to tremble in the faint breeze of his breath. He crushes it in his palm and shoves it in the pocket of his torn jeans. This is not fucking good. 

For some reason, he understands what's happening. He remembers his mother telling him about it, Hanahaki disease. It had almost been a joke as a kid, a fairy tale. Because he never imagined he’d be coughing up flower petals, no, not him. It was just a story almost, he didn’t even know anyone who had ever had it before. Just his luck. 

He tries to keep calm, but he can almost feel his lungs pull tight and he almost chokes before he coughs up another petal. It’s still as dark as blood.

He jumps up from the couch and makes it to the kitchen, stuffing the petal into an empty beer can before gripping the counter with white-knuckled force. He tugs his hair back, feeling the sweat gathering at the back of his neck. Fuck this, fuck flowers, and most of all fuck Axl Rose (you wish, a little voice tells him in the back of his mind). 

He looks around their shitty kitchen, what little food they have is all scattered across dirty counters and surrounded by bottles of various forms of alcohol, most empty. He knows who it is. One-sided love isn't something you can just ignore. Who else is there? 

The thing is, Axl doesn’t love, so of course, he had no chance in the first place. Hell, he barely tolerates his friends and bandmates most of the time, let alone would Axl ever fall in love with him. Slash knows down deep Axl must love and hurt like the rest of them, but who could ever love him to begin with? Sure, he has all he needs to hook a girl for the night, but anything further than that? Not really. Because no one wants a drunk junkie who plays guitar in a band that can’t even afford to feed themselves most of the time. 

Maybe it could go away. It’s not like he even knows much about this fucking disease in the first place. It might just go away if he ignores it. His throat burns and he coughs, another red petal landing on the counter. He grabs it and stuffs it into the same can with the other one. Then he turns and leaves the kitchen. 

By the dim light of the living room, he stumbles over and scoops Steven up off the chair, shifting his weight to a comfortable hold. Steven doesn’t even stir. Walking down the hallway he deposits the drummer in his respective room and saunters off to his own. When he lays down on the busted mattress he swears he can feel the thorns dig into his chest.


	2. With Your Heart On Your Sleeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he sits up, his chest squeezes. Fuck. So, it hadn’t been some drug-fueled nightmare.

He wakes up to the sound of a resounding crash that seems to echo through the house. Someone yells, followed by a string of curses that float through the cheap door to his room. He groans and rolls over, fumbles to grab his drink off the dresser. It’s piss-warm beer, not water, but at this point what’s the difference? There’s another crash and he squints his eyes against the faint light of the hallway that creeps under the door. 

When he sits up, his chest squeezes. Fuck. So, it hadn’t been some drug-fueled nightmare. 

There had been a moment of bliss there, forgetting last night. He stumbles to his feet and makes it out the door and into the bathroom at the end of the hall. He slams and locks the door. Coughing so hard that he almost retches, damp petals staining the dingy yellow of the sink. That didn’t feel good. He blinks down at them. One, two, three, and four- all delicate looking rose petals. He turns on the water, which sputters to life and watches them disappear down the drain. They leave a bitter taste in his mouth and he spits. Turning to leave he takes a deep breath, time to face the rest of the world. 

He walks down the hall and finds himself in the kitchen (it’s a stretch at this point, but still). The yelling that could be heard from his room comes to a head in the cramped room. He should just turn around, it’s never good to be caught at the tail end of an argument in this fucking house. And by the looks of it, Izzy and Duff are really going at it.

“-fucking think that it’s a good idea? Jesus, you dumb fuck, what did you think would happen?” Duff yells, slamming down a bowl on the counter. He considers hightailing it out of there, it’s rare when Duff and Izzy fight. They both seem to be able to keep their heads, especially with each other, and rarely do they fight as much as the rest of them do.

“Oh, I’m sorry, we can’t all be little a goody-two-shoes like you! It makes me money, pays the fucking rent!” Izzy yells back, his normally calm demeanor nowhere in sight. Oh, it’s about the dealing. Duff and Izzy always seem to clash there, and for someone who uses drugs, Duff doesn’t approve of Izzy selling them. 

Slash has come to terms with the fact that Duff doesn’t disapprove of the business, but of Izzy doing it. It took him longer to figure out it was because he cares about him, he knows how shit like this could end. 

He slips away unnoticed, wincing at the sound of something shattering when he walks into the other room. He falls down into his shitty chair and rubs his eyes. He can feel something hot building in his throat again. He swallows heavily, suddenly wishing for a drink. 

He’s not sure how much later, probably only a few minutes, when Steven comes into the living room with him, “I’ll be honest, don’t remember making it to bed last night.” He says with a yawn, and Slash has to smile at that. It’s a Sunday, no work for now. They should drag their sorry asses out to go record, but it’s looking like that won’t be happening. They sit together for a few moments in silence till Izzy comes storming out of the kitchen, and out the front door which rattles in the frame behind him. Duff appears in the doorway moments later, looking defeated and more tired than usual. He slouches against the frame, tugging a hand through his knotted hair.

“I hate that piece of shit sometimes,” Duff says to no one in particular. Slash hears no malice in his voice. Another morning, another fight. Duff cares too much sometimes. It’s almost like he’s compensating for everyone else's 'no fucks given' attitude. Slash can see it, Duff gets attached even when he knows it’ll end in flames.

Steven shifts uncomfortable sensing the mood, “Axl make it home?” Duff blinks, snapping out of his daze. His eyes dart toward their rooms as if trying to remember. What a fucking mother hen (god knows they need one). Slash hadn’t seen him get in either, no telltale door slam and heavy footfall across the floor.

“Didn’t hear him come in,” Duff finally says with a sigh. Slash bites his tongue, restraining from a biting comment that would only serve to make Duff pissy. Steven shrugs and stretches back against the beaten up couch. His shirt rides up and he flops onto his side with a sigh.

“Probably holed up with some chick,” Steven laughs. Slash feels his blood pressure spike. He knows Steven only meant it as a joke (though, it’s probably true), trying desperately to defuse some tension in the room, but it’s not what he needs to hear. Duff nods absently, eyes once again fixed on the front door.

“Yeah, sounds about right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback would be great! Trying to find the motivation to keep this going.


	3. We're Gonna Make It (Promise)

Slash coughs up thirteen more petals before he resigns himself to a day spent in his room. Duff had left twenty minutes ago, pulling on a jacket and mumbling something about needing to go on a booze run (bullshit, he’s going out to look for Izzy). Steven had slipped away, most likely on the premise of getting high. It leaves Slash alone with his thoughts and the fucking flower petals. 

He grabs his guitar and makes a half-hearted attempt to work on something, but nothing clicks. He can’t stop for a moment, stuck playing the same riff over, and over, and over till it hurts. He can’t move on. He throws the offending instrument down on the bed next to him and buries his head in his hands.

Then, he paces. He looks at the phone in the hall, even goes as far to pick it up. He doesn't dial anyone. Who would he call? He doesn’t have a go-to person for medical emergencies (at the moment this seems to be more of an emotional emergancy).

The door slams. Heavy steps trail a little way inside the front room. Slash is about to go check who it is, but before he can his stomach begins to lurch. He spins toward the bathroom and quickly locks the door. He coughs, leaning against the wall and scrambles to catch at the falling petals. He can hear the sound of Axl in the background, yelling into the mostly empty house. His name is among the words shouted, but he can’t focus at the moment. He throws the petals in the sink, hurriedly turning the water on and making sure they’re all gone before he flicks it off again. 

“Come on, man! I know you’re still here, not that fucking stupid,” Axl yells. Slash swallows and opens the door. Axl’s face is about three inches from his. 

“Jesus!” Slash snaps, shoving Axl back. The redhead laughs, head falling back. Slash huffs and brushes past him. He looks reasonably put together considering he was out all night. Axl trails him into the kitchen, reaching for the open bag of stale bread on the counter. 

“Where the fuck did you go?” Slash asks, trying to keep a nonchalant tone. Axl glances up at him, mouth twisting into a smile.

“Dude, last night, picked up this chick. And I mean she was- damn, she was pretty fucking hot. Gave the best blow-,” Slash throws an empty beer can at his head, narrowly missing, but effectively cutting off the train of thought. 

“Watch it,” Axl growls before stuffing the piece of bread, now covered in peanut butter, into his mouth.

Slash shrugs, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, “You overshare everything.” Axl shrugs sucking the last bit of peanut butter off his thumb and Slash has to look anywhere but there, he doesn’t need to deal with a fucking boner like some teenager because of Axl.

“You wanna go out?” Axl asks, back to scavenging for food.

“You just got back,” Slash says, and that came out a little more whiny than he was aiming for. Axl glances up but seems to ignore the comment altogether.

“Go to that Chinese place? Haven’t been there in a while,” Axl says. Slash bites the inside of his cheek, Duff brought home Chinese a couple nights ago. 

“Fine,” he relents, scratching the back of his head. Axl smiles for a second, then darts off to another recess of the house. It’s only four o’clock, he’s got some time to get dressed before Axl drags him out of the house.

He walks to his own room, shutting himself inside. Clyde is asleep in his cage, curled up tightly. He’s in his own world. It would be nice to do that Slash figures, plus, snakes don’t cough up flower petals.

As if on cue, he finds himself in the midst of a coughing fit. He leans against the wall, bracing one arm as more petals fight there way free. He glares at the colorful splotches on the floor and kicks at them.

He snatches a pair of slightly less torn jeans off the floor and changes into them, briefly wondering if he should make an attempt with his hair. Walking back to the front room, he grabs his boots and slips them on. The house has fallen strangely silent again and he begins to worry that Axl has finally passed out somewhere. 

Axl comes back before he can even decide which room to check in. “Great, let's go,” Axl says as he throws open the door to let the afternoon sunlight inside the dingy room. Slash can almost feel the temperature change (only it’s not the fresh air). Axl is already out the door by the time his feet start forward. Every moment is a new challenge with Axl. Little things set him off when big ones don’t, and sometimes it just seems to happen of its own accord. If you blame yourself for every mood swing- well, you’ll always be beating yourself up. 

~~~

Slash trails after Axl for ten minutes, leaving a comfortable space between them. Careful not to step too close nor too far from him. Axl slows his pace and Slash takes a chance and sets his stride beside him. It’s almost funny how fast their footsteps sync up. Axl looks smaller now with the sun falling lower and the strip starting to light up with neon signs. The leather jacket looks a size too big on his slumped shoulders. 

They’ve walked far past the restaurant, but Slash hasn’t even noticed yet.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” Axl says glancing over at Slash.

“What do you mean?” Slash answers while staring hard at his boots. 

“The band, do you think we’ll ever be big?” 

“'Course.”

“How can you know that,” Axl huffs feet coming to a stop as he glares at Slash. Because I know you, he wants to say. He keeps that to himself.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“I don’t know, man, look around! We’re a bunch of drunk junkies in a world of other bands full of the same shit. Fuck, we’re lucky to even get twenty people at a damn gig.”

This isn’t normal. Axl doesn’t get second thoughts, ever. He plows through till the end and still denies he was ever wrong. Never does he try to back out of things like this. Why now? It’s supposed to be someone else in his life bitching about making it big, not Axl. The cars whiz by on the street and people skirt past them as other bubbles out from the entrances of shops and clubs, more stand near buildings in the dim light. 

Axl looks at him again, expecting something, expecting an answer. Slash doesn't have an answer. Fuck, he doesn’t have anything to tell him (anything he can say, that is). His throat is dry and he can’t tell if it’s from the roses or from looking at Axl like this. They keep walking. 

They don’t speak as they slowly walk back to the house. Axl doesn’t even ask when Slash ducks into an alley and coughs, but he’s fast enough that Axl can’t see anything. He’s getting better at this. 

When they finally make it home, Axl throws the door open with force enough to rattle it in the frame and makes quick work of his boots before retreating into the house. Slash pauses just outside, digging in his pocket for a smoke. He lights it quickly and shoves the lighter back into his pocket. The air cools off as the light leeches out of the sky. He can smell the city and smoke. 

Hesitantly he walks inside and pulls the door shut behind him with a fraction of Axl’s earlier force. There’s no noise now, the stagnant air hanging heavy around him. No ones made it back yet. He flops down on the beat-up couch and knocks the ash into the tray on the coffee table. He bites his tongue when he feels his chest tighten. If he doesn’t breathe, he can’t feel it. The problem with this is that he can’t hold his breath forever. The petals he coughs up look bigger than the little ones from last night. He buries them in his pocket. 

Two more cigarettes are gone by the time the door opens again. Duff stands in the doorway looking like shit. His hair's a mess (is it because he messes with it when he’s nervous? Why is he nervous?) The second thing he notices is that Izzy isn’t behind him. 

Oh, the nervous hair thing makes more sense now. 

“Slash,” Duff says, but it comes out almost breathless and a tad bit hopeful, “Did Izzy make it back?” Not very subtle. Slash licks his bottom lip, he looks like he’s clinging to the thought that Izzy came back before he did.

“Sorry man, just me and Ax,” he says trying to come off light. Duff’s face drops. 

“Ok, cool. Just checking,” he replies. He’s definitely not cool. Duff slips away into the kitchen. Slash is alone again. It’s getting late, by no means late for the residents of this house, but still. He stands and walks around a pizza box on the floor back to his room. Axl’s door is open. 

He can see him sitting near the piece of shit mattress that’s thrown on the floor. His knees are pulled up to his chest and he’s looking at nothing in particular. Just a lost gaze. Part of him screams to just keep walking, but he ignores it and pushes the door open further. Axl doesn't look up.

It’s going to be one of those nights. 

Slash crosses the room and sinks down beside Axl. Leaning against the wall they’re shoulder to shoulder and it feels so right it hurts. Maybe it’s his imagination, but Axl leans into him.

“We’re gonna be okay,” Slash says. Axl doesn't say anything, fuck knows if he’s even listing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys! Trying to get everything together so I should be posting more often now. :) Hope you all enjoy, and your comments make my day.


	4. Notice the Other Things

It’s a pure coincidence that he happens to see it. It’s only because he jerks awake in the middle of the night to cough up more petals that he finds out. They’re balled into tiny smudges of color in his fist when he makes it to the kitchen.

He finds Axl perched on the countertop in the kitchen, with Izzy standing in between his spread legs. He almost turns around, but he manages to process that they’re both wearing clothing. That doesn’t comfort the surge of jealousy that bubbles up in his chest (or is it just more flowers?).

The next thing that he notices is that Axl has a black eye that’s fresh enough to still be blooming across his pale skin. His ratty Aerosmith t-shirt that hugs him in all the right ways has what looks like a rip near the neck. The fabric look stretched like someone pulled on the material till it finally gave way. A million possibilities surge through his mind. Did he get into a fight? Izzy? He doesn’t want to think about what it might mean if Izzy was the one to mark up Axl like that. He’s not going to think about it.

“The fuck happened?” he says. Izzy’s head snaps back around to look at him, lips set into a thin line. He can see Axl swallow from halfway across the room.

“Nothin’,” Axl blurts out. Oh, that's reassuring. He flips his hair back out of his face and squints at whatever Izzy is holding in his hand. It’s ice in a towel. That still doesn’t give him an alibi for this. He's still half asleep, his thoughts are foggy at best and this looks like something that would be hard to deal with even if he was all the way awake.

“He just got into another stupid ass fight about some shit,” Izzy supplies setting the ice back onto the counter and backing away a few steps. Slash catches the look Axl shoots him, but he can’t read it. Confusion? Or thankfulness? If someone would just tell him what actually happened, it would be so much easier.

“Yeah,” Axl says. His eyes dart back to the floor. He slides off the counter, bare feet hitting the cold tile. “Thanks, man,” he says slapping Izzy’s shoulder before shuffling toward the door. Slash glares at Izzy who doesn’t waver under his gaze. 

“Seriously, dude. It’s nothing,” Axl says with a little half smile that isn’t convincing. Their shoulders brush when Axl finally leaves the kitchen. His footsteps trail down the hall till they fade away. Slash looks at Izzy again. He hasn’t moved, arms crossed standing in the bleak light. 

“Are you gonna tell me who did that?” Slash asks. 

“Dunno wasn’t with him,” Izzy replies in a level tone that only serves to annoy Slash. He looks so calm all of the time. He doesn't get angry quickly like the rest of them.

“Right,” Slash says. His fist curls tighter around the petals in his fist. They’ve withered away to almost nothing under the force. Izzy blinks, once, then twice before he walks from the room. 

Slash lets out a breath. Stuffing the petals into the trash he closes his eyes. Izzy wouldn’t hit Axl. He wouldn’t. At least, Izzy wouldn't come out unscathed either. He coughs again and angrily stuffs the two petals down with the others in the garbage. 

~~~

The next morning is hell (then again, every day is hell in the hell house). He wakes with four petals on his pillow, all a deep red with delicate veins that look bigger than the other flower petals he’s coughed up of late. They’re supposed to all make it down to their little, rented studio at about eleven o’clock. It’s already ten thirty. Duff has staked out the bathroom, effectively cutting off everyone's supply of water for a shower. Izzy is the only one who slips through the door to fuck with his hair while Duff showers. Bastard. 

Steven still looks strung out as Axl makes an attempt to forage for food that hasn’t spoiled to eat for breakfast. Slash growls in greeting, choosing to ignore the previous night's events in the kitchen. His hair falls over his face, providing a welcome reprieve from Axl’s string of words that gets lost somewhere in their journey from his mouth to Slash’s brain. 

Duff comes flying into the kitchen a few minutes later, hair clean and half dressed looking more awake than the rest of them combined. Izzy slinks into the kitchen soon after. They’re out the door ten minutes later, Slash dragging Steven and Axl leading the way. They’re strapped for cash as is, so they walk to the studio ignoring the looks from passersby on the street. 

Steven looks like absolute shit. And he's not one to judge, but at least he remembered to put on a clean shirt this morning. “You gotta cut back, man,” Slash says, elbowing Steven in the ribs. He gets an indignant glare for his troubles. 

“Oh yeah? So could you,” Steven shoots back at him. His disdain is gone just like that, his blinding smile taking back it’s place on his lips.

“Oh, fuck off,” Slash laughs, shoving him again. They’ve done it again, avoided a serious discussion over something they just never bring up. 

When they reach their destination, Slash has already stuffed two more petals into his back pocket. He’ll sell it off as a cold to the rest of them. Doesn’t matter, he’s not the one singing. In fact, Duff is the only one who gives him a funny look about the coughing.

They’ve got a gig tonight, so they run the setlist a few times till someone loses focus and Slash is just playing with a few notes that don’t really go anywhere, suddenly very bored. With little else to do, he watches. There are no drugs, booze, or girls to distract him.

What he ends up noticing are the looks. The way Duff looks at Izzy and Izzy looks at Axl. Not just a quick glance, they’re not even talking. Duff looks at Izzy when Izzy isn’t looking back, just stares at him while fiddling with his bass. Izzy looks Axl in the eyes. And it’s almost like a staring contest till one of them drops their gaze and goes about something else. It makes his head hurt (and is that his heart too?).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anybody be interested if I posted some missing scenes from this fic? (as a separate work) They're mostly Duff's POV and are more focused around him and Izzy and less about Axl and Slash.


	5. Look What We've Become

The bar is packed with more people than usual, and the proud part of Slash wants to chalk it up to the fact that people are starting to come to see them. Axl perks up too, smirks at him before they go up. As soon as Axl looks away Slash gives up trying to hold the four petals in his mouth and spits them onto the floor brushing them away under a table with the toe of his boot. 

“You good, man? You sound sick,” Duff asks as he fiddles with his bass. 

“Yeah, cold or some shit,” Slash shrugs. Duff looks up at him for a moment, like he’s considering pushing the issue, but doesn’t. They’re all distracted for one reason or another it seems. 

“Okay, let’s go kick some fucking ass!” Steven chirps and Slash would like to be mad at how excited he sounds, but he can’t.

When they get up on stage, things go well for about ten minutes. Slash had been praying that my some miracle being on stage would stop the petals. Of course, it doesn’t. The normal butterflies of performing are replaced by flowers. It just seems to compound the issue.

The upside to the situation is that everyone else is occupied more or less on something else, and he doesn’t have to do any talking. The downside it that rose petals taste absolutely horrible. He waits until Axl pauses in between songs to talk before he makes a desperate grab at a glass of what he hopes is whiskey. He manages to swallow, earning a seething look from Duff (oh, it was his drink wasn’t it?) but at least they’re no longer in his mouth. For now.

He throws himself back into the music trying to ignore the itch in his throat and focus on getting his fingers to play the right music. He gets lost in Axl’s voice sometimes, it coincides with the notes and chords and they meld together and suddenly that’s all he can hear. It’s instinct and muscle memory wrapped into one that keeps him playing as the songs change.

Things are a bit better as the show winds down. When they finish, Axl thanks the crowd and Steven gives another crashing drum roll in victory before they finally walk off. They pack up and Slash is moving in a daze for some reason, only ducking off to the bathroom to dispose of more petals. 

Something else happens right before they leave. You wouldn’t notice it if you weren't looking for it, but Slash sees it. Axl shifts. In a subtle way like someone is messing with a dial and the music gets softer, but only a little bit- and if it was loud enough in the first place- you might not notice.

Axl goes quieter than normal. No extra talk to fill the dead spots in conversations. Slash considers asking Duff to bring his shit back for him and trying to stay at the bar with Axl. Just the two of them so they could talk together. He doesn’t though, he’s not sure Axl would even consider it. 

It takes another half hour to get back home with everything stowed away. Duff is leaning on Izzy, looking a little bit wasted (when does he find the time to get this shitfaced) and Izzy’s hand is curled around Duff supporting him and half dragging him forward. They’re tired enough that everyone goes straight back to their rooms. Slash is about to follow suit when he notices Axl isn’t back. Where the fuck did he go? No one was paying attention, but when did he get a chance to slip away? 

Maybe he’s looking into things too much. Axl probably hooked up with some girl, or perhaps he forgot something back at the bar. It’s nothing. 

Still, Slash pauses in the door to his room and ends up turning around to go sit back in the front room. He sits down on the couch and manages to find the remote and turn on the TV. He’ll just stay up for a bit, he’s not that tired anyway.

He doesn’t wait up because he’s paranoid. No, at this point he’s not paranoid that Axl is going to come back with some girl on his arm. And as much as that would hurt to see, it’s a better alternative than the other hundred scenarios running through his head. But really, it’s just the one that he doesn’t want to see happen. 

Because he's seen the boys on the street corners, the girls too, but it’s the boys that catch his eye. They’re young and pretty, and Axl is both of these things and he hopes that he’s just overthinking. He’s not stupid though, he can’t afford to live the in the fantasy world ignoring the evidence.

His train of thought is snapped when his chest clenches for the third time in the past hour. There’s resentment when he drops the petals in his empty glass like it’s their fault, not his. He goes back to trying to watch whatever old movie is on.

The door opens suddenly. His head jerks up and he catches sight of Axl. Axl’s eyes quickly catch him and he freezes, like a robber caught in the crime right there in the doorway. It’s the analyzing gaze that sizes people up and spits them out after he’s chewed them out with words or fists. 

"Hey," Slash says, clicking the TV off and the room plunges into silence. Axl grunts in response and Slash can't see his face past the curtain of copper hair that covers it.

“I think we need to talk,” Slash announces.

“What are you, my mother? Waiting up to bust my ass when I get back late? News flash, I’m a big boy Slash, don’t need you watching out for me,” Axl hisses and Slash wasn't sure what reaction he was going to get, but certainly not that. Axl is angry and that is not how he wanted to start this conversation.

“Axl, I know what you’ve been doing,” Slash says before his brain can catch up with him. Shit, that was not what he should have said if Axl’s face is any sign. The thing is he’s not one hundred percent sure, it’s a gut instinct and that hasn’t steered him wrong yet (got him to here right?). 

“The fuck do you mean?” Axl snears with an accusatory tone that colors the air around him in a warning sign to back off. 

Deep breathes, he can’t engage him like this, “You’re keeping shit from me, Ax. We’re not supposed to do that, this band isn’t supposed to do that.”

“Fuck you, Slash,” Axl says slowly like the words are slowly grinding out of his throat. He takes a step forward and Slash hops to his feet. Axl almost rears back like Slash pulled a knife on him. Slash is confused, Axl isn’t afraid of confrontation and for sure he’s not threatened by Slash, so what is he hiding?

“You don’t get to do this! Jesus, Axl, I thought you trusted me, but no, you only tell Izzy what the fuck is going on. That’s fine, but don’t ask me for help when you land your ass in trouble,” Slash yells. Fuck this and all of the other bullshit in his life. He's angry at Axl, he's angry at everyone.

“Do you think I fucking enjoy it? Yeah, let me go slut around the fucking town so I can get the cash to buy us food!” Axl’s eyes flash a dangerous shade as his disheveled hair falls over the side of his face. Then he can see it, the split lip and fresh bruise on his cheek.

And there it is, out in the open now.

Slash wants to wipe the blood off his lip and brush his hair back, do all the gentle things that others so clearly forgot to do. But Axl is a wild animal right now, with bared fangs and an open wound and the clear message to stay away. His anger dissipates almost immediately. 

Axl tries to push past him, but Slash catches him with an arm around the waist. Axl hisses and makes a desperate attempt to get away. Slash hopes it wasn’t from bruised ribs (a look at his face suggests otherwise). The noises in the room are all amplified creaks, cracks, heavy breathing all pounding through their eardrums. 

“Axl,” Slash mummers softly hopping, no praying, that Axl won’t bolt. Axl snears at him in the dark and wipes the blood off his lip with a vicious pass of the back of his hand. Slash swallows and tries hard to think of something to say, anything. This is what they don’t talk about. They don’t talk about how Izzy deals just a block away and comes back looking like the weight of the world fell upon him, how Axl goes out at night with his hair clean and comes back dirty in every way, how Duff goes out with a smile and comes back with a dirty apron and frown. They just don’t.

“Gonna give me a fucking lecture, Slash? How I’m just another whore on the street looking to die?” Axl says looking pointedly while looking into space just over Slash’s shoulder and nowhere else because his eyes definitely do not shine in the dim light, they don’t.

“No,” Slash says, with the evenest tone he can manage. “Can I clean up that cut?” Axl looks at him like there's a secondary meaning to his actions, a double motivation for a basic human decency. Instead, Slash gently takes Axl’s hand and in his own and leads him to the couch. Axl collapses down, then pulls his knees up to his chest. 

Slash slips away to the wreck of a kitchen and grabs a towel and a glass of water. He almost drops them when he’s caught in a coughing fit slamming the glass onto the counter to catch the petals. He shoves them into the trash before he returns. Now is not the time for his problems. 

Axl looks so small on the couch. He looks like a fucking kid that’s seen too much shit for anyone to deal with. His arms look thinner in the night and his hair looks a deeper red in the light. Slash kneels down in front of him and hooks a finger under his chin and pulls his head up. Dabbing with the cloth, Slash watches Axl shrink back into the couch. He sets the water down on the floor beside him and counts to three before he can look back up at Axl. 

When he finishes, he throws the rag on the floor and sits down on the couch. He waits for moments to trickle by before he scoots closer to Axl. The space between them closes when Axl leans into him with a calculated movement that seems robotic compared to his normal passionate and sure movements, “They’re never gentle.” Slash sucks in a breath when Axl stats speaking, “Hell, they like it if they can make me cry half the fucking time. They never stick around, and I don’t either. That’s if they even take me back to a room.”

Silence falls again through the small room. Axl’s warmth leaches into Slash’s side, like ice melting into a drink. Slash waits, Axl waits. “Fuck, why am I telling you this?” Axl whispers into the dark space in front of them. 

“Because I’ll listen,” Slash answers. What else does he need to say?

Axl lets out a humorous laugh, “Just another sob story, huh?" He waits another minute again, “When I started I never thought it would go far, y’know? Just one or two guys to tide over till we got a gig and some cash. With the five of us, we’ve got it covered most of the time. It was just a tough week, and fuck, I thought it would be a one-time thing. Except it wasn’t, it’s like your first hit, it was just going to be that one, you don’t plan to get stuck in the cycle. Then the next week we busted all the money on god knows what, and I had the choice again. What are you going to do? Never thought I’d let them go that far, either. I try to stop them, most of the time I can. Just give them a blow job or some shit and they give me the cash and we both walk. But the guys get handsy and I can’t get ‘em off of me.” 

Slash licks his lips and blinks. Axl goes quiet again. The room doesn’t stop its noises. He lets his arms slip over Axl’s shoulders, pulls him closer to his side. He’s so small now, compared to the man that gets up on stage and sings. Slash turns and presses his nose into the red hair that smells just so uniquely Axl.

“I’m going to pick up another job,” Slash says.

Axl takes a sharp breath, “Why? ‘Cuz you pity me?”

“No, I don’t pity you, I just know you deserve better,” Slash says. He shifts so he can face Axl and pushes him back to lay down on the couch. Axl looks like he wants to run like someone’s done this before and he knows how it’ll end for him. He doesn’t, though. Slash doesn’t either, doesn’t force him to do anything, just lays down half on him, half on the open spot of the ratty couch. They lie on the couch together, until Axl isn’t breathing so heavy and his heart rate seems to match Slash. 

Axl has his fingers intertwined with Slash’s fingers. It’s calm outside. It’s calmer inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I should be posting more regularly now! Thank you for sticking with me :)


	6. Fistfights and Flowers

They don’t talk about it the next morning. Like a lot of things, it seems better if he just keeps his mouth shut. Izzy gives him a look when he walks through the room, but he doesn’t mention anything either. 

The flower petals are beginning to get in the way more. Duff threatened to go look for cold medicine, but Slash brushes him off the best he can. Whiskey works just as well for his problem. They lounge around until Steven offers the suggestion of going to a party at a friend of a friend’s house. Much to his dismay, they go. 

He’s not particularly happy about being dragged along, and he does his best to show it by seating himself on the couch with a bottle of jack and a sour look. It’s a waste of a good night spent in with his guitar and another bottle of booze. There’s not a lot to do except watch people.

There are girls everywhere, in various states of undress, and guys to match. The music is on the wrong side of too loud and he can barely smell past the thick smoke that blankets the room. A few months ago, this would have been great. Not so much now that he's having to hide rose petals in his jacket pocket.

Slash can pick out a douche bag a mile away (takes one to know one) and this guy, well, he’s definitely a douche. What really sets it off is the way he crowds Axl- he’s huge compared to him, and it’s easy for him to pick him off from a group. Slash licks his lips and taps a finger against the arm of the couch. He glances down at the worn fabric and his chipped nail polish. He shouldn’t interfere. That would start a fight, and Axl can hold his own against this guy anyway. Axl doesn't like people treating him like he can't handle himself. 

He tries to focus on what Steven is saying to him, something about a girl. If he notices that Slash isn’t listening he doesn't show it. When he looks up again Axl has moved even further away from the throng of people. The douchey guy is definitely up in his face now. His tapping speeds up in pace. Axl isn’t even trying to get away, he just steps back and keeps his head down. Slash doesn’t like that.

Most of the time he wouldn’t encourage Axl to take a swing at a stranger, but he’ll make an exception. Steven is still talking, animated and excited about whatever it is. Where the fuck is Izzy and Duff? Izzy is usually near Axl when they're out in crowds. 

He looks away from Axl to scan the rest of the place, hoping to catch the bleached mop of hair or dark curls somewhere. If Duff saw it he would pull Axl away from it without a fight (well, a smaller chance of a fight then if Slash went over). Still nothing. And shit, there are more flowers. He covers his mouth as he coughs, praying Steven is distracted enough not to notice. He can feel it when he breathes now, the rattle in this lungs. It takes twice as many breaths to feel comfortable now.

He glances back at Axl, but he’s moved. The guys got an arm on Axl’s shoulder now and he’s nudging him toward the bathroom. His blood pressure spikes. Oh, fuck no. He stands up, abandoning his drink. Axl has a blank look that he can see from across the dim room. 

Pushing past people, he navigates the room until he’s almost on top of them. Axl gives him a frantic look that Slash can’t read at the moment or maybe he's too pissed to try. The guy turns to him with a sneer and Slash feels like he might lose it right there.

“Why don’t you back the fuck up, douchebag,” he growls ignoring the fact that the other guys got a solid four or five inches on him. He's way bigger too. And drunk.

“The fuck did you say to me?” the man snaps.

“I told you to back the fuck off, douchebag. Do you want it slower this time?” Slash says with a slow smile. He wants a fight. I punch means much more than any words he can come up with. Axl lurches forward like he’s going to drag Slash and him out of there, but the man puts a hand on his chest to stop him. Wrong move. 

Slash hits him first, and it feels good to hit an asshole that’s got more dick in his personality than he does in his goddamn pants.

Then a punch lands square on his jaw. He can feel his head whip and the click of his teeth. His vision swims for a moment but he holds his ground. And then, like that, the switch is flipped. The switch that tells you to stay and fight and makes you see red. He lands the next hit, and he can’t even see where it hit but the crack under his knuckles tells him it was the fucker’s nose. He goes again, and he can’t see past his hair that’s fallen into his face. 

The guy lands a crack against his face again and he can barely feel it through the adrenaline. He lunges forward and they’re on the floor, now the man is underneath him and Slash just keeps going. Hit after hit. He could keep going in his crusade to beat the flesh beneath him into a bloody pulp, but someone is pulling him up and off and they’re moving now. 

He doesn’t remember what happened in between outside of the bathroom and the backyard with no one else in it. He does see Duff, who shoves him against the side of the house, with an arm braced across his chest.

“Slash! The fuck, man? You gotta chill, now,” Duff hisses, and damn, he looks pissed. Slash wants to run, but Duff must see it in his eyes because he presses him back harder into the wall and towers above him, “I said, cool it.” If he weren't so wound up he might wonder why Duff looks so ruffled.

Slash huffs and blinks at his new surroundings. They’re just outside of the house from the looks of it. Someone opens a door and more light spills into the night with the sound of music and voices. Izzy stumbles toward them with Steven in tow. Where’s Axl? He waits till Duff lets go of him before he lurches forward again.

“Jesus, fuck!” Duff curses as he catches him by the arm this time before he makes it too far. Steven is at his other side now, with a hand on his shoulder and words that he doesn't want to hear right now in his ear.

“Axl?” Slash grinds out through clenched teeth. 

“He’s fine,” Izzy says and Slash wants to snap at him all the more for that. Duff’s grip loosens and he shrugs him off the best he can. 

They all hover over each other awkwardly until Slash decides he’s had enough bullshit for tonight. He can't deal with them right now. The questions and accusations and Axl's glare when he gets outside. So he walks, not looking back. He's not even sure how he plans to get home. The sound of slapping footsteps is the only indication someone follows him, and Steven’s voice that calls after him.


	7. Downbound Train

“Slash, slow down, man!” Steven yells at him. Slash doesn’t want to slow down. There’s nothing back at that stupid ass party for him. Everyone is pissed at him, he knows that. Duff because he started a fight. Axl because he didn’t let him deal with his own problem. Steven because he’s not listing. And Izzy? Well, Izzy is probably just pissed that he still exists.

“Fuck off,” Slash snaps at Steven, shrugging him off of his arm when he catches up. 

“No,” Steven hisses, finally pulling his arm hard enough to him in his tracks. He feels like crying, throwing up, and screaming. Maybe all three in that order. Steven looks desperate with his finger digging into Slash’s arm, “Slash, man, I’m here for you. You know that right? You’ve dragged my sorry ass this far, I’m here for you.”

Slash swallows and he can’t help but look him in the eye. He can see all the years he’s known him right there. And he can’t shut it out. All of his emotions are calming down from the raging boil into a simmering thrum and he's feeling more and more empty, “Thanks.”

He leans in and Steven’s already got his arms halfway around him. Stevie pats his back, and Slash knows he’s smiling again. It feels nice to hug someone again without worrying about secondary intentions. They part again and Slash shivers at a brush of the cool night air. Steven gives his arm a final pat before he gives him a little shove forward, “Let’s get the fuck home.”

Their paces fall in step with each other and they walk in silence for a few minutes. That is until Slash can’t hold back the flowers. He ducks away quickly, back to the shadows to half retch, half cough up the flowers. He pulls himself back together before Steven can make it back over.

“Shit, dude, didn’t think you were that drunk,” Steven says with a slight frown. Slash isn’t sure if being drunk right now would help or hurt. Probably a bit of both. Slash just shakes his head and starts walking until Steven catches up with him.

“What would you do if you loved someone you couldn’t have?” Slash says suddenly.

“Fuck, like a girl or something?” he laughs, “I dunno, go get her. Don’t know why you’re asking me, do I know her or something?” Slash shakes his head again and his curls bounce. They walk the rest of the way back in silence.

~~~ 

The next morning, things go to shit pretty damn fast. He could deal with a few petals, even a couple tiny rose buds. He can tell everyone it’s a cold. Up until now, it's like he's been on the upwards part of a huge roller coaster. Things are happening, but slowly and they most definitely build up to something worse.

And of course, they do. He wakes up with a slight headache and a dry mouth, but nothing terrible. He’s fine one minutes and the next it feels like someone stabbed him in the chest. He can’t breathe for a hot second and he falls to his knees in the middle of the living room in his quest for a glass of water. His hand flies to his chest and he digs his nails into the skin over his heart wincing. 

As his shitty luck would have it, someone else is home. He coughs and spits up a flurry of rose petals. They scattered on the floor around him. It just keeps going for a minute. This is ten times worse because it doesn't stop like it used to. His insides twist tight and he curls in on himself.

He doesn't hear the footsteps or someone yelling at him from the next room. 

Duff looks so sad when he walks into the room and sees him on the floor. Slash can see his mind click into gear when he manages to lift his head up enough to see his eyes register what’s happening. He walks over and kneels down beside him. Slash spits on the floor, the bitter taste of flowers still floating in his mouth. A reminder that they're all still there. 

Duff hooks a finger under his chin, pulling his eyes up to meet his. Slash heaves again onto the floor, more petals flowing free. Duff sighs and gathers his hair back so it doesn't get in the way. He suddenly feels much more exposed.

“I think I know, but tell me just in case," Duff says in a tone that carefully masks any emotion.

Slash glares the best he can with a rose petal stuck to his chin, “Fuck off.”

“So it’s Axl,” Duff sighs and Slash growls, wincing when his throat gives protest. Sometimes he forgets how smart Duff is. He knows Slash would tell him if it was some girl. There's not a lot of other people he's close to anyway. Plus, Duff has seen him stare at Axl’s ass one too many times for it not to turn into something else. 

“Fuck,” Duff says rubbing his forehead like he can press back all the things in his head. 

He hates this so much. Stupid fucking flowers.

“Okay, let’s get you up,” Duff says with a little smile that’s miles away from ever reaching his eyes. Slash closes his eyes as Duff gently tugs him to his feet and guides him to the door that leads into the kitchen. Slash wants to shove him away and lean closer at the same time. 

Duff gets him to the kitchen and nudges him onto some of the clear counter space. He comes back a minute later with two bottles, vodka, and JD. Slash dutifully accepts the offering. Duff leans back on the island in the middle of the kitchen, straight across from him. 

Duff is looking at him with that goddamn look that says he’s reading him like a fucking book. He's seen Duff do it before, take in all the little cues people give off and spit them right back out as something that makes sense. 

Slash takes a swig enjoying the burn that muffles out the other pains inside him. Duff sets his bottle onto the counter beside him and crosses his arms. He’s waiting for him to explain he realizes. Tough luck. 

“Do you have a plan?” Duff asks suddenly, picking at something on the counter with one of his nails. 

“Yeah, and it’s called ‘none of your fucking business’,” Slash shoots back. Duff’s lips twitch at the corner as he rolls his eyes. He bites his lip until he can feel blood spring to the surface. 

“You know I may have more experience with this then you think,” Duff says with a pause, “It runs in my family.” There’s another second of dead air, “Among other things.” Duff chuckles when he finishes, but he doesn't look happy. Slash cocks his head to the side before fumbling to get another gulp of his drink. He's got almost no idea what's happening inside of him, someone shedding some light (welcome circumstances or not) would help. 

“Oh yeah? Look at us, a bunch of fucking saps,” Slash sighs. Duff gives a little laugh at that. Slash knows that Duff’s family wasn’t near as bad as Axl’s, but he still doesn’t talk about it much. Sometimes Duff is just a riddle that when solved, gives you another question. 

Duff sighs, “It’s a shitty hand to deal with. My mom had it. Lost her first love because of it. You lose a lot if you have it removed. One of my brothers had it too, but it worked out in the end. You gotta do something about it though, can’t have you checking out on us.” 

Slash takes another sip, and Duff follows suit. He doesn’t know what he needs to say. So he doesn’t say anything. 

More flowers fill his throat and they’re all over the floor now. Duff has a hand on his shoulder patting his back. His fingers rub circles over the fabric of his thin t-shirt. 

Duff offers him a napkin and it comes away speckled with blood, “You really don’t have much time.”

“Gee, thanks, Duff. I had no idea,” Slash says when he can catch his breath. Duff snorts and gives a final slap to his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna go get Axl,” Duff says with a sigh.

“If you value your life, you won’t,” Slash hisses hoping that sounds more threatening than it looks. 

“And there’s the kicker, I really don’t,” Duff shrugs before he slips from the room. Slash spits again, plucking up a petal and squeezing it until his fingers hurt.


	8. All The Way Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter, here we go! :D

His life is a downward spiral that sinches tighter and tighter. He’s giving up, and that’s never good because when you let go, you lose. But there’s just no reason to keep going. This band, Axl, they're his life now. He’d rather die like this than have all emotions towards Axl fall cold. His mother always said he was stubborn.

He’s not sure how long Duff’s been gone, or if he’s coming back. The passage of time is only marked by the ever lessening amount of liquid in the bottle.

His fingers hurt from gripping it so tight and it slips from his fingers and crashes to the floor when he coughs. There are shattered shards of glass at his feet mixed with the amber liquid that bleeds across the tile, and he doesn’t remember why he's still in the kitchen. It’s all going numb now and he only has to think about what’s going wrong every time more petals appear. They’re coming quicker and quicker now. There’s more of them and little buds that look pretty, and small. They’re never going to bloom though. They’re doomed to be plucked early and never be able to grow. If he wasn’t pleasantly buzzed it would be funny how much he’s thinking about fucking flowers.

Red flowers. Red roses. They’re just blooming in his lungs, not his heart.

He does his best to step over the glass and falls down a few feet away. He lays there for a moment until he hears footsteps. There’s a pair of boots inches from his face but he can’t bring himself to look up at who it is. His eyes fall shut, and he really wants to get some fresh air, he can’t breathe very well.

Someone hoists him up and half drags him out of the room into what he assumes is his bedroom. He’s dropped down onto his bed. He’s not sure if this is what drowning feels like. He can still breath, tiny puffs that hurt and seem to harm rather than help. His vision is slipping away now, tiny curls of black blotches edging in on the corners of his vision.

His chest aches too much, and the rest of his body seems to hurt in sympathy. Unconsciousness seems to be his closest friend at the moment, nights spent drinking himself into an early grave and shooting up all lead to the same end- 

black.

~~~

Consciousness does not bring him the reprieve he so desperately wishes for, instead, it brings even more roses. They come in clumps and buds and crushed flowers, but it doesn’t have an end. His fingers curl into sheets and he realizes he must be in his bed now.

He feels tears well in his eyes when he chokes up more roses. The thorns rip at his throat, the petals come up covered in blood which blends against the paper thin flowers. He sobs as he spits the blood out of his mouth. He can’t stop crying, can’t stop the roses that race to leave his throat. Is he choking on roses or tears? 

He slumps back against the bed, rolls to his side to let more roses force their way out of his lungs. If years of drinking have taught him one thing, it’s to not lay on your back when your body is forcing things to leave your throat. He lets his eyes slip closed, a bitter smile plays across his bloodstained lips. He’s never even really liked roses, they have thorns and the leaves scratch. Sure, they’re pretty, but they can fucking hurt. Axl is the only Rose worth a shit anyways.

He closes his eyes again. Then he can feel fingers that play through his hair. Has he finally died? Was it really roses that did him in, and not booze or drugs? His throat is raw, he can almost feel the tracks left by sharp thorns. So perhaps he has died and it’s hell if the flowers are still here. 

“There you are,” he hears someone whisper. Axl. There’s no way he could ever mistake that voice for anyone else. It’s all so much worse now, so much, because Axl knows now. Knows he’s going to die choking on flowers because he’s too fucking emotional to have them taken away. Because the love goes when you pluck the flowers. It dies when you break the stems and discard the petals. And he can’t do that. Because there’s no way he’d be in this band if he didn’t look at Axl and feel something, there would be no point if it was a hollowed out to an empty shell. Music and love doesn't come from nothing, it comes from pain.

He wonders what would happen if Axl was in his place.

“You’re fucking stupid, you know that? Look at you, you’re dying,” and there it is, that’s the Axl that will never love him or hold him or kiss him. The words bite into his skin. 

Sometimes he wishes he had been born different. Maybe as one of the pretty girls that Axl brings home, maybe one that could steal that heart. But he wasn’t. He’s not what Axl wants. More tears build behind his closed eyes again. 

“Let me, then,” he says, and it scares him because he means it. He remembers what Duff has said before he had gone and thrown a wrench in Slash’s plan to deal with this alone. Axl chuckles- has the fucking audacity to laugh at him.

Fucker, this is all his fault in the first place. The hands don’t stop, and he realizes they must be Axl’s. They’re not harsh like his words, they gently work their way through his hair, never pulling enough to cause pain. His chest loosens. Just a little. 

“You know I can’t do that,” Axl says. Why? It’s not like he matters, he’s heard enough people tell him that. All he wanted was to play guitar, didn’t even want a family, just his friends. He was so close to it all too, he has Stevie, Izzy, Duff, and Axl. 

He winces when he swallows and he can feel the petals building again. Axl breaks the silence, “So who is it? What pretty little bitch went and broke your fucking heart, huh?” he winces as the words hit him, and they hit hard (just like Axl in a fight). He can’t help when he curls up tighter, because he’s already retching up more roses and more blood on to the white sheets. Axl doesn’t jump back, his hand rubs gently across his back and holds his hair back. He even goes as far as to pluck a petal that clings to his lip off, holding it up and inspecting it. 

“More roses?” he glances at Slash. He slumps back down feeling short of breath, that’s just how it feels when there are plants in your chest. “You need to tell me, fuck, Slash. We gotta get this shit taken care of,” Axl hisses, and Slash’s bitter smile makes an appearance. 

“Don’t think you’d believe me,” Slash whispers trying to swallow down the copper taste that mingles with the roses.

“Try me,” it’s the same voice Axl uses when he’s getting ready for a fight. And is this shaping up to be a fight? Won’t be much of one if Slash feels like he can’t even pick his head up. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Axl tenses and springs off the bed, eyes shining with anger, “You’re so fucking selfish! You can’t just die, you don’t get to do that! We’re supposed to stay together, this damn band, we made it this far and you’re going to let yourself die? You told me, Slash, you told me that we were going to make it. You told me I fucking mattered, and now you pull shit like this?” Axl’s whole body radiates pent up anger that looks like a spring ready to come shooting apart at any moment. Axl’s fists clench at his sides when he whirls toward the door and stalks out, the door giving a resounding slam. Slash is left to choke on more flowers. He’s never been good with words anyway so perhaps it’s for the better that Axl didn’t stick around to hear them.

He lays there. He can’t do much else at the moment. Is he selfish enough to die? Then again, at this point, what is there to do? Who the fuck is going to tell his mother?

He’s thought about death. But it was never something that he thought would touch him like this. He thought he would die before he turned thirty-five from drugs and if he got past that it was just borrowed time anyway. But then, going out in a blaze with a rock n’ roll band? That was how he wanted to go, not in some shitty house where no one knows his name.

Another flurry of petals makes an appearance and he feels like sinking down into the bed and never getting up. He sniffs and tries to brush the petals away. Angrily, he swats at them as they cling to the sheets, leaving smears of blood in their wake. His hand is shaking so hard it doesn’t do much good.

The minutes tick by before the door opens again. Axl slouches in the doorway, looking defeated. 

“I’m sorry,” Slash whispers, and his voice sounds like shit. It feels like the thorns have raked grooves down his throat, like a vinyl record. 

“Fuck,” Axl says and Slash lets his elbow give out so he can fall back to the bed. Creaking floorboards lead to the edge of the bed before the mattress dips under a second weight. This time Axl doesn’t get close to him, “She’s pretty damn lucky.” Slash blinks, what does that mean? 

Oh. 

“He’s really not,” Slash says and he hopes Axl doesn’t hit him. He probably deserves it, but that would break him. Then again that’s the least of his worries, considering dying is looking to be a large possibility. Yet, Axl doesn’t flinch.

“He’s pretty lucky.”

He feels his body seize, and he jerks up the best he can. He coughs so hard his head pounds before a bloody rose claws its way free. He can feel the tears running down his cheeks. 

“Oh,” Axl whispers as he gently helps him lay back against the pillows. “Please, please tell me who the fuck it is,” Axl snatches a tissue off the bedside table, trying to clean some of the blood on his chin. He can feel it smear, and the copper on his lips stains them a deep red. Axl trying to desperately fix a mess that he doesn’t even know is his fault in the first place, hits him in the chest just as hard as the roses do.

Slash gives another little and broken cough, blinking up at Axl, “How many people do you think I could cough up roses for, Rosie?” He hasn’t called him Rosie in years. Rosie was the kid from Indiana that Izzy had introduced as ‘Bill’ only to be corrected with ‘Axl,’ and Slash had called him Rosie after that. Rosie is gone now, now it's all Axl. But sometimes he still sees his Rosie in Axl. 

Slash watches Axl’s face go white. It’s a stark contrast compared to the blood that drips from his own lips. He closes his eyes, feels himself drifting because it’s so hard to breathe. He can almost feel the petals flutter in his chest, the roots of the flowers digging deep into his chest and winding around his heart. With the thumping that pulls blood through his veins. Why can’t Axl fucking see?

He can only get little puffs of air now. The room feels stuffy, packed full, and at the same time, it’s too empty. 

And if he has to evaluate his whole life up until this point- it’s been pretty okay. Well, he thinks so at least. Music was always his life and he made it to the point where he could make it and share it with everyone else. Living in a house that’s so full of shit it’s hard to function with four other guys may sound horrible, but it wasn’t. It never was.

Maybe he'll just go now.


	9. Too Dark To See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter :')

“No, no, no,” Axl says, and his voice sounds panicked. Hands are cradling his face, holding his head, “Open those fucking eyes. You don’t tell me shit like that then leave! Slasher, don't you fucking dare," Axl shakes his shoulders, and Slash can't breathe. His chest is so tight, there's no more room for air. 

"Fuck!" Axl yells, and Slash forces his eyes open again. Axl looks wild, hair askew, hanging in a curtain around his face. He’s wild like the night that Slash had held him on the couch. All Slash can think how much he would treasure him. He's intoxicating, like a siren on the rocks and obviously, Slash isn't the only one to notice that, but he wonders if he's the only one to really appreciate it.

"Don't make me fucking say it," Axl whimpers with tears that gather in the corners of his eyes. Slash can't focus enough to figure out what that means. 

Axl's nails dig into his shoulders, and that’s the only thing anchoring him down. Axl’s eyes screw closed and his mouth hangs open a moment before he speaks, "I fucking love you okay?” There’s a pause, “I love you, you stupid piece of shit." The words look like they cut Axl's mouth as they leave his lips. Is this a cruel joke? Or a last-ditch attempt to keep him from leaving?

It stops.

Everything stops. 

Then, he gasps like a drowning man who's just gotten to the surface. It feels like someone sucked all the air out of the room and shoved it all back into his lungs. He can almost taste the air around him. His chest feels like it's going to explode.

And his body must finally realize what it's supposed to do because he starts to cough again and it's the first full breath he's gotten in what feels like years. Suddenly he has the strength to lean forward and cough again. There are no red roses this time. Instead, white rose petals fall from his lips. They leave no biter stain on his tongue. Then, like that, his chest feels strangely empty and clear again. He can breathe again. His lungs fill and deflate, not working around roses anymore.

He looks at Axl, whose eyes are blown and scared looking, tears still shining over them in a glaze, “Slasher?” Slash lunges forward and crashes into Axl, fights his way up to press their lips together. There are no more flowers to get in the way. It surprises Slash that Axl doesn't push away, there’s no harsh shove waiting for him at the end of this and he wasn’t sure he’d get this far. He presses Axl back into the bed, till he’s almost laying on the smaller form beneath him. It's almost not a kiss, a clink of teeth against lips and awkward press of noses. It's still so much better than anything he could have ever dreamed up.

When Axl kisses him back, he can’t hold back the tiny whimper that escapes. He can't think, so overpowered by everything beneath him. Axl pushes up against him, pressing closer till there’s no air between them. The only way to describe the way it feels- is that it fits. They're hips slot together and Axl's chest heaves up into his. He can feel Axl's heal digging into the small of his back, locking them in place.

They kiss like there life depends on it, and really, it almost does. He lets his hands explore Axl. He’s all angles and sharp corners. The live off of almost nothing and he can feel that when his fingers brush over the ribs that lay underneath Axl’s taut skin. His hair is soft, not teased like it is when they do there show, it’s soft and loose against his neck. He digs his fingers into the copper strands, relishing in the noise Axl makes into his mouth. He has to break to take a gulp of air. When he looks down at Axl, his heart seems to thud in a slow, steady rhythm. He feels like someone cut him open and laid his soul to bare, and for once in his life, he welcomes any judgement Axl could ever rain down on him.

He’s crying again and Axl is wiping the tears away, but Slash can see the streaks on his cheeks too, along with a smudge of blood from left over from his own lips. Axl claws at him and drags him down, throwing his legs around Slash again until all he can do is collapse on the man beneath him. Axl is crying into his hair, with tiny almost hysterical laughs in between. His hands make shaky passes up and down Slash's back, nails grazing across his shirt when he struggles to hold onto something.

“I thought I was gonna lose you," Axl whispers into his neck. Slash can’t answer him, so he kisses him again.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who has hung in through weird updates, and I'm sure a wealth of errors, we're finally at the end! I hope you enjoyed :D


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